


A Drop of Time

by aldonza



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/M, I have always wanted to see this ship and decided to be the change I wanted to see in the world, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Rare Pairings, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22843081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: Philippe meets the Persian. Their moment starts with a bang, and ends with a whimper.
Relationships: Comte Philippe de Chagny/La Sorelli, Comte Philippe de Chagny/The Persian, Darius & The Persian
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A different sort of pharoga- Philippe/Daroga! I really wanted to see this ship happen, so here it is, the angsty rarepair two-shot that now exists. First chapter's significantly lighter than the second, but I want to warn appropriately:
> 
> No happy ending (but nobody dies here!), this can be seen as canon compliant if you wish, and there will be mentions of racism/xenophobia in the next chapter (that I don't condone, of course).

In all honesty, it had started on a whim and nothing more. Count Philippe de Chagny was not a fickle man and perhaps this was both his greatest virtue and greatest flaw. Once he set his mind on a matter, that was it. Men like him did not have time to be fickle. They did not have time to sit and think. 

Ever since his father’s death, he took the family name and estates upon himself. At only twenty-two, he had become patriarch to his sisters and father to his brother. He oversaw the weddings of every de Chagny daughter and raised his little brother as he would a son. And then, when all was said and done, the pent-up fires of his youth returned once he was free of such obligations.  When Raoul joined the navy and his sisters merrily became mothers to their own children and wives to their own husbands, Count Philippe was very much left to his own devices. At forty, he had all the vigor of a man of twenty and the gravitas of a gent his age. And though the family would always come first, Philippe rather enjoyed living for himself- for once in his life.

That was what he loved about La Sorelli. She let him live the way he wanted. The ballerina was half his age and capable of spinning words as beautiful as her twirls on stage. She always knew how to soothe his nerves and how to light his urges. She was gentle touches and breathless kisses, a butterfly more than worthy of his caress. 

“My dear count,” she’d whisper into his ear, a sultry note to her smooth voice.

Sorelli was one of those exquisite people who could command attention without appearing to do so. Philippe recognized this quality because he too had mastered that skill over the years (his brother, Raoul, not so much). It came through in the flourish of her bow and her adoption of the so-called ballet rats. She taught them all she knew, for she was sure that none would ever surpass her. And she did it without a touch of arrogance. She simply did not see competition beyond herself, a lesson the Garnier’s prima donna had yet to learn.

Philippe himself had taken many young aristocrats under his wing. He did not mind telling them how to seduce pretty maidens or (how to appear) to appreciate a good opera. They were young roosters, but he knew- on sight- that none would ever overtake the shine of Count de Chagny or his younger brother.  And though Sorelli never took another lover (but she no doubt had men before Philippe), Philippe indulged in plenty light fancies. It never bothered the ballerina because she knew in her mind’s eyes that these whims were nothing more. After all, these trysts all lacked La Sorelli’s natural glow, no more than sparrows before her swan. And Philippe knew this clearest of all. 

He did not mind indulging because he was not married and he suspected Sorelli- despite her hopes- had an inkling that she would never be Madame de Chagny. In that respect, she seemed content to be his other half, ears and heart open to whatever he said. Philippe expected no less from a woman as worthy as Sorelli.

“My dear count,” she said one night, breaths hot as he showered kisses upon the nape of her neck, “I spoke to that man today.”

Philippe paused, reflection smiling in the dressing room mirror. “Ah, do you have another man now?”

Envy was a trait Philippe had never possessed. He was- truthfully- happy that Sorelli had another to love her.

But she merely laughed. “No, no. Though I suppose I wouldn’t mind if it was him.”

“So which man is it?”

“Were you not listening, my dear count?”

“I’m afraid I was too busy admiring your neck. So lovely and white-” He moved to kiss her again when two fingers stopped his lips.

“So you weren’t listening,” she sighed. “I was talking about the Persian.”

His brow furrowed. “You spoke to the  _ Persian _ \- why?”

“I don’t really know myself. We had finished rehearsing and I was making my way back here, the dressing room, when I caught him lurking backstage. He sticks out like a sore thumb- I’ve no idea how he got past us all!”

Philippe was not particularly interested in this tale, but when his hand moved to cup Sorelli’s breast, her fingers blocked his palm. 

“Perhaps I should have let him alone, but I didn’t like that strange look in his eyes, and what business does he have snooping around? I know for a fact he’s not  _ seeing _ anyone in our company nor is he in the opera’s employ. So I had half a mind to- politely- tell him off.”

“Poor fellow might just be lost,” Philippe said.

Sorelli shook her head. “You weren’t there, Philippe. He looked nothing like a lost man. But he is a man nonetheless- I think you know exactly what he was doing.”

“Oh, pray tell?”

“I suspected he was hoping to catch more glimpses of our girls. Your friends have done the same at one point or another.”

Philippe chuckled, mustache bristling against the shell of Sorelli’s ear. He could not fault her logic. “Ah, so our mysterious man from the east is a red-blooded rogue like the rest of us.”

She slapped him playfully. “It’s not funny, count! I was terrified of what he might do. So I was ready to tell him he could not be back there. Then  _ he _ spoke to me.”

That piqued Philippe’s interest, if only marginally. “I had no idea he could speak French. I don’t believe anyone’s ever heard him talk.”

“He’s got an odd accent, but he spoke well enough. ‘Mademoiselle, have you seen or heard anything odd?’ he asked, no pretense, no explanation. As a joke, I told him he was the only suspicious one around. But the humor seemed to fly over his head. So I grew serious and told him to go home and wait for the next performance. He had no right to sneak as he did.”

Then, rather heated, Sorelli went on, “He didn’t even apologize. Just turned and left.”

“Ah, so he was the reason you were in such a foul mood today. Then, my dear, why do you let him bother you? His manners are ill because he’s foreign. He lurked because you are beautiful. There’s really no more to it.”

“But there is.” She hesitated. “Have you ever seen him up close, Philippe?”

The count had seen the Persian in passing more than once, but never paid the man much mind. He really had no reason to, just as he had no reason to know the box keeper’s name.

“Does it matter?” Philippe said. 

“It does, if you pay attention. He’s handsome, my count, and not in a rakish sort of way. He looks like a statue come to life. For a moment, I even wondered what it would be like to let him look upon me in your place.”

Philippe grinned. “You sound quite taken with him. I’d no idea you liked Orientals.”

“You know that my heart is yours.” She frowned. “But that split fancy passed as soon as it came. My concern is how easily he could bed one of the girls here. I don’t think he’s a man with good intentions.”

“And why would you say that?”

“I suppose I could tell he was hiding things- I just don’t know what. And I’d rather no girl find out the hard way.”

Philippe mulled over her words. He pecked her on the cheek. “Would it ease your heart if I spoke to him? Perhaps he’d be more willing to be honest with another man.”

“You won’t hurt him? I’d hate for you to get into a fight.”

“Not if he gives me no reason to. Besides, how ugly would it look if Count de Chagny was seen punching the opera’s Persian friend.”

She was about to speak again when he shushed her, two fingers pressed to her red lips.

“And you know what, my dear Sorelli. I’m quite interested in seeing how handsome he is for myself.”

* * *

It was hard to catch Count Philippe’s eye. He would never have looked twice at Sorelli if she had been another ballet rat, for his gaze was always fixed on where the spotlight shone. And she happened to shine as bright as spring sun. Her light was not so blinding as to turn him away nor so meek as to be overlooked. Temperate, doting, and radiant. Her only flaw was having been born without money.

The Persian was another matter. Philippe had indeed never bothered to look him in the face, much less eye. He only remembered the Persian through glimpses of olive skin and worn coats. The most interesting thing about the man was somewhere between his peculiar hat and the fact that he hailed from the Orient. And neither trait was enough to warrant Philippe’s attention.

Even so, Sorelli’s story had tickled his curiosity, and on a whim, Philippe confronted that foreigner the very next day. The Persian had been admiring the foyer’s columns when Philippe found him.

The man was stalking around a particular column, tapping his knuckles against its carvings every few seconds. And wondering if the Persian was mentally sound, Philippe asked, “Monsieur, do you have a moment?”

The Persian whirled around, quite astonished that Count Philippe of all people was speaking to him. His eyes drifted for a moment, as if searching for anyone else the count might have been addressing instead. 

“Count de Chagny,” he said, accent stirring, “are you speaking to me?”

Philippe regarded him, then. And was startled to see the truth in Sorelli’s words. How had he missed it before? The Persian was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen, his eyes a stunning jade and his face- though creased with some age- a proud balance of angles and noble charm. Grey colored the tips of his jet black hair and bristled in his neat beard. 

“Count de Chagny?”

Philippe blinked, leaving the spell of those piercing eyes. “Ah, yes. You are indeed the man I wanted to see. The man from Persia, correct?”

The Persian nodded, his surprise giving way to some suspicion. “May I ask what business you want with me, M. le Comte?”

“I was hoping you could shed some light on a rumor.” Philippe leaned on the column, an easy smile from his lips. “Do you lurk backstage to call upon the Opera’s lovely maidens?”

Instead of shrinking as Philippe had expected, the Persian seemed to  _ rise _ in height. 

“Forgive me, Count de Chagny. Are you accusing me of indecency?” the man asked coolly, the barest hint of displeasure at the tip of his tongue.

Philippe held up a hand. “Of course not, Monsieur. There’s hardly anything indecent about a man’s natural instincts, after all. I’ve seen many a man do the same.”

“I have no interest in the prima ballerina, if that is what bothers you. My tastes are quite different from yours, I’m afraid.”

The count had never taken any pains to hide his relationship with Sorelli. As long as the public knew marriage was off the table, he was satisfied. But he was not fond of the Persian’s tone. He found himself somewhere between amusement and irritation at that tiny insult. Was this man insinuating La Sorelli was not good enough for him? If so, then what did that make Philippe?

Dropping the friendly facade, the count said, “Since you did me the honor of being so honest, I shall do the same. The ballerinas often see you in places where you should not be. If not to catch a glimpse, what else were you doing? Robbery? Loitering? I am a patron here- one word from me and you could be banned from the Opera.”

The smallest of smiles flicked across the Persian’s face. “I’ve heard similar words before. Rest assured, Count de Chagny, I mean no one harm.”

Before Philippe could get another word out, the Persian was already gone.

* * *

For the next several days, Philippe only had eyes for the Persian. The man had left him seething since their confrontation and it was a most irritating feeling. Philippe could not bring himself to truly be angry with him because some part of the count was indeed impressed by the Persian’s unflappable tone. The other part told him he had no reason to tolerate this disrespect. He added Sorelli’s teasing to the affair and far too much free time on his hands. 

He rehearsed in his head what he would say to the Pesian upon their next meeting, though the words always escaped as soon as he glimpsed the man’s face. To his dismay, the Persian proved especially hard to find for a man always wandering the opera house. He’d asked Sorelli if the Persian was seeing anyone in the company- if only to cast aside their suspicions- and was simultaneously relieved and annoyed to discover that he wasn’t.

In the end, Philippe thought it best to forget about the Persian altogether. As long as he was no longer a threat to the girls’ safety, Philippe wanted nothing more to do with him. Except that was not quite true.

Something in him itched to speak to the Persian again, if only for that thrill of shock. He was unused to being spoken to in that manner and he’d wondered what title that man had back in Persia. But he’d neither been rude or insulting. There was instead an eloquence to his words, a thin spark that Philippe wanted to fight. Perhaps days of idleness had truly gotten to him.

And then, as if ordained by fate, Philippe found the Persian standing at the steps of the foyer one afternoon, those eyes staring intensely at the pouring rain. 

“Did you leave your umbrella at home?” the count asked. “You may borrow mine.”

The Persian started. Philippe was glad to have surprised him yet again. 

“Hello, M. le Comte,” he said. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I wasn’t fond of the lead tenor. Man has a dreadful reputation.”

The Persian nodded.

“Monsieur, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to apologize for our conversation that day. I should not have jumped to conclusions.”

The man regarded him slowly, as if struggling to remember whether or not they had spoken in recent days. “Ah, yes, that day. Think nothing of it, count.”

_ Think nothing of it, he says! _ Philippe knew then, that the Persian somehow managed to forget their conversation. Had their roles been reversed, the count would surely not have. And so he laughed, again bested by this enigma of a man.

“I’d planned to take a hansom home,” he told the other, “but I’m rather in the mood for an early supper.”

In the moment those next words left Philippe’s mouth, he finally knew what the itch in him- that strange thrill- meant. He hadn’t felt it in quite a long time. Not since La Sorelli.

“Would you care to join me?”

He wanted the Persian. 

“M. le Comte,” the man said, brow hiking up, “are you inviting  _ me _ to dine with you?”

“Have you other plans?”

“No, but-”

“Then where’s the harm? Come, it will be my… apology. To new friendships?”

Philippe held out his hand, expectant. The Persian’s jade gaze floated from his fingers to Philippe’s ice blue before he shook that hand. 

“Thank you, count.”

“Philippe, you must call me Philippe.”

“My apologies. Philippe.”

* * *

They shared supper in a private room at a pretentious but adequate dining establishment. The maitre d’ had cast Philippe’s guest an odd glance upon their arrival, but made no remark otherwise. And it was just as well that the staff respected Count de Chagny’s privacy. 

The Persian spoke little, perhaps overwhelmed by the high atmosphere (though he showed no sign of shyness). Philippe had offered him red wine, but the man politely refused, choosing rosewater instead. It was only when the count himself had downed at least three glasses of wine and made his way through half a steak that he felt comfortable conversing. 

“So tell me, my friend,” he said, “why do you lurk about the Opera all the time?”

“It excites me. I very much enjoy the beauty of its interior.”

Philippe laughed, unsure why he was laughing. “Is that all?”

“No… I am a paranoid man who tries to do the night guard’s job.” The Persian smiled. “Perhaps I have too much time on my hands.”

“That, I believe.” Philippe raised his glass. “You and I both. To wasting time together.”

The man accepted his toast, and the rest of their dinner passed rather pleasantly. Philippe asked for his opinions on the season’s shows, Parisian weather, and pieces of boring gossip he thought safe to share.

And then one dinner led to another.

* * *

The Persian’s lips tasted of cinnamon and spearmint. Philippe learned this after another of their many dinners. He remembered that the Persian had paid the bill this time, a noble feat for a man whose funds seemed so limited. 

Having had too much to drink, the count leaned towards him and said, his mustache still stained with wine, “I talk about nothing a lot these days. But you always listen to me. I haven’t had a man listen to me in so long.”

And it was true. There were too many subjects he did not broach with Sorelli, because then he’d remember that he could not share with her a marital bed. She would never bear his children and he could never keep her in his home. It never weighed on his mind unless he let it, and when he did, it burned at his eyes and left a lump in his throat.

He considered his friends just that, friends to play cards and smoke with. Most of them were vapid, pretentious fellows anyway. And Raoul- only Raoul had listened, but Philippe always took care to hide his troubles from Raoul, crafting a perfect world for the boy. 

With the Persian, it was different-- the man listened intently to whatever he had to say, no judgement across his features regardless of Philippe’s woes. There was an understanding in his eyes, a wisdom that calmed the count beyond words. With him, Philippe could speak of his troubles with Sorelli, his concerns for his nieces and nephews, the itching fear of mortality that crept within him- especially when he looked at Raoul, strong and young. With the Persian, Philippe feared nothing.

“And I haven’t had a man speak to me in so long,” the Persian answered gently.

And as if expecting what to follow, the Persian tilted his head. Philippe placed his lips against the man’s own. He made it slow, careful to savor every second and taste.

Mint and spice followed him home, the count half stumbling as his companion hailed a carriage. He did not get drunk often- he could hold his liquor well- but it was freeing nonetheless to openly laugh and speak while the Persian helped him to his door. The man did not come in, despite Philippe’s insistence.

“I fear you may regret it in the morning,” the Persian had said.

“Yes, that’s true,” the count agreed, “I have enough regrets already, wouldn’t you say?”

* * *

Philippe had taken men before, though none of it had been anything beyond a fancy. They were usually fair aristocrats, silver-tongued and easily smitten. Perhaps Philippe indulged them because they admired him so, or perhaps it was because he enjoyed the thrill of hiding their kisses. And yet they did not match up to La Sorelli and after one night, he’d perhaps not see each man for another year or so.

With such men and women, he remained untethered.

But with the Persian, Philippe found himself going back again and again, as if addicted to aphrodisiac. Not since Sorelli had he found himself so smitten with another. And the Persian certainly made his attentions worthwhile.

Their hands would brush behind the stage, one man lurking about and one man en route to Sorelli’s room. Most nights, Philippe would beckon the Persian to dinner, the door shut tight, and they would kiss, sometimes light, sometimes with tongue and teeth. He had a flat near the Opera, one used specifically for reasons such as this- and there, in the guest room’s silky sheets, he’d ask to touch and be touched.

“Are you fonder of men or women?” the count once asked, the first time he’d invited the Persian into his empty flat.

Biting a cigar, the man replied, “What do you think?”

Philippe held out his hand and the Persian passed his cigar into that palm. The count smoked it, mouth closing around where the Persian’s lips had touched. “Then, if you have no qualms, my friend, I’ll make this clear. I want to trace your body in my bed. I want to feel you grow hot and wet against my skin.”

He looked the Persian in the eye. “Do you wish to do the same with me? One word and it shall be done.”

“Philippe,” the man said, biting his lip, “what do you think?”

They woke up in the morning, naked and tangled in the same sheets.

* * *

In the excitement of his new love, Philippe felt that he had neglected Sorelli. For a time, he found himself going to her dressing room less not because he wished to see her, but rather because he wished to see the Persian on the way. And more often than not, he chose to return to the flat early rather than to visit Sorelli at night. Thoughts of her creamy skin were replaced with swarthy muscle, her pointed jaw replaced with graying beard. And one way or another, his feelings for Sorelli and the Persian had switched-- now it was her he wished to talk to and him he wished to bed. 

“I will continue to see La Sorelli,” he once told the man, “I will always love her. If this bothers you, then we must terminate our arrangement immediately.”

The Persian had merely reclined, legs crossed as he thought over Philippe’s words. He always had that air about him, the confidence of someone who did not care for what would send any other man frothing at the mouth. 

“Does your arrangement with me bother her?” he asked Philippe, “I think that is the more prudent question.”

“No. She’s rather amused by it. She thinks you very handsome.”

“I thought she had a sour impression of me.” He smiled, a low smirk.

“Ah, my friend, just because she finds you beautiful does not mean she likes you.”

“Fair enough.”

Philippe was fortunate in the respect that neither of his lovers was prone to jealousy. The Persian, for all his charm, was a somber man, seemingly resigned to the idea that Philippe would never be his. But he also acted like a man who had no intention of becoming Philippe’s either. And Sorelli never sought to make Philippe’s hers-- but she did wish to be his. 

And that was where the problem lay. She could never be his wife, and so long as his attentions were divided, no one could belong to him. His family was his own. And all else was best left outside. 

But in his way, he did love her.

It had been raining outside when he found her room, eager to tell her she was not forgotten. To his disappointment, the Persian had not been nearby, but perhaps it was for the best. He was not the object of Philippe’s concern now.

“And here stands the fairest of them all!” he announced, swooping in to hug her from behind.

Sorelli nearly squealed in his embrace, laughing high as she returned his kisses. Then she was upon him, exchanging words of how much they’d missed the other. 

“My dear count, how have you been? I see you so rarely now.”

“Good. Very good, my love.” He kissed her hand. “And you?”

“I still live by what I love: dancing, and-”

She pecked his mouth. “-you.”

Sorelli on his lap, Philippe told her of the flat and the Persian’s involvement. The ballerina’s face had fallen slightly when he mentioned it- for it was there that Philippe used to bring her- but he was quick to tell her that the Persian insisted on paying rent. 

“Not much, mind you, I haven’t the need to charge him. But one night became two, then three, and really, we only spend the weekends at our own residences now. He thought it fair to pay for his bed if he’s all but living here.”

“That’s smart of your friend.” She wrung her hands. “It makes him your equal in a way, doesn’t it?”

Philippe did not think of it that way. He shrugged. If anything, it was only another of the man’s quirks.

“How nice,” she muttered, “to be your equal.”

“Enough of our friend,” he said, “what of the Opera now? Any new gossip for my ears?”

“No new scandals, if that’s what you wish to hear. But I know how much Count Philippe detests scandals.”

He nodded in agreement. She sighed. “Then do you wish to hear about the opera ghost?”

The ghost had been a rumor from the start of Philippe’s patronage and frankly, he thought of it as frivolous nonsense. He’d told Sorelli this multiple times, for as intelligent as she was, Sorelli and the others in their company had the same bad habit of falling for superstition. They blamed the ghost for anything, from accidents to missing props, and it proved to be quite the source of entertainment for the younger dancers. There was also something about stealing francs from the managers, which Philippe found to be a pathetic excuse for embezzlement. 

But now it seemed, the ghost was feeling particularly mischievous, going as far as to harass M. Poligny in his daily life. The manager could not sleep a wink or do his paperwork without fear of this phantom exposing his secrets. 

“A decent man would not have to fear revealing his secrets,” Philippe scoffed.

Sorelli’s tale had affirmed one thing: Count Philippe did not care about the ghost or its managers.

When he left Sorelli that night, Philippe was accosted by an anxious stagehand, a lad far too incensed to speak coherently.

“M. le Comte,” he said, “please hear me. You’re a good man and nobody here’s wanting to see you harmed.”

“What is it?” Philippe asked, worried that some murder had taken place.

“The Persian has the evil eye. If I were you, I’d stay far from him.”

Philippe laughed in his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and the final chapter is here.
> 
> Warning: angst, mentions of racism/xenophobia (reflected in some nasty attitudes from minor characters that I do NOT condone)

As a rule of thumb, Philippe kept his flat empty. He hired a woman to clean it every Saturday, but he never bothered to stock it with more than water and tea. There was little decor and fewer indication that a man lived in it-- it looked nearly the same as it had when he first bought it. That was just as well, for Philippe never intended to use it as anything more than a glorified hotel room.

He used it to entertain friends from the Opera and as a space for his less respectable ventures. His lovers would come and go, and by the next week, all traces of what had transpired would be erased.

But now the smell of fresh tea- sometimes coffee- permeated the air. Almost always, two mugs would sit on the tiny table, sometimes accompanied by yesterday’s paper or a half-eaten apple. Philippe had taken to storing some frocks and suits in the wardrobe, next to the Persian’s coats and shirts. Strands of black hair- sometimes grey- and golden locks fell on the pillowcases they shared.

And for once, he found an extra toothbrush in the washroom, next to the new razor and the scent of the Persian’s favorite shaving cream. The flat was as much his as it was the Persian’s now, and Philippe did not mind at all.

This was a world they had built, a little space hidden from the world where they were free to simply be, and Philippe adored it with all his heart. Had he the power, he would have kept it this way forever more. 

And then their world crumbled bit by bit.

* * *

Poligny took Box Five for himself, perhaps as a challenge to the ghost. Philippe did not care either way, but he was mildly amused by the manager’s suffering, no doubt a result of a guilty conscience. One box over, Philippe sat, Decaen and his wife, Margot beside him. They chatted about idle things before the curtain rose, and frequently Decaen would sneak a glance past their balcony at poor Poligny in his seat.

Then the boxkeeper’s shrill voice cried, “You can’t go in there! It’s not your seat!”

Philippe started as the door to their box slammed open. And the man rushing in was none other than the Persian. Decaen hopped to his feet, immediately holding his wife behind. 

“Stay back!” he shouted. 

But the Pesian ignored him, and before Philippe could reach him, raced to the balcony’s edge. Only then did Philippe notice his hat hung askew, the damp smell of water clinging to his wet clothes. And his eyes were crazed, vibrant with anger as he looked to Poligny. 

“Idiot!” the Persian hissed.

Then, to Philippe’s horror, he began climbing out the balcony, apparently trying to make his way to Box Five. The count lunged, yanking at the man’s sleeve until they both fell back to the ground. In his grip, the Persian said, “Philippe! Let go- I must get to M. Poligny!”

“Tell me what you’re doing first! What kind of lunacy is this!?”

“Now! There’s no time!”

“What-”

They broke apart when Poligny screamed. Above, Philippe saw the man cowering before a silhouette. He might have caught a glimpse of the spectre’s ashen face before it disappeared into the shadows. Poligny stumbled out of his box, no doubt a victim of a poor prank. 

He heard the whispers next. Philippe peeked over the balcony and blanched. His fellow opera-goers were not looking at poor Poligny. They were looking at Count de Chagny and the mad Persian.  And as Philippe felt his shame burn, the Persian ran out, dashing after Poligny or perhaps the so-called spectre. Philippe did not care. All he knew was that those men and women below had seen the Persian in his box and witnessed that burst of unexplained madness. 

“He called you ‘Philippe,’” Margot said, “why did you let him?”

In truth, Philippe had done his best to hide the Persian from the others. He did not want to admit it but as the shame continued to run through his heart, he knew- he’d known it from the start. He did not wish the world to see him and the Persian together. For once, he felt ashamed for that worn coat, for that odd hat, for the man’s clipped accent and the fact that he was always so out of place. Had it been another man- perhaps Pierre, Vincent, Ferdinand, Etienne- would he have felt the same? Philippe did not know, and the shame ate at him twofold. 

Perhaps he had been ashamed from the start and thought himself too high and mighty to care.

“I don’t know,” Philippe told her.

* * *

They spent less time together after that, it seemed. The Persian occupied himself with scrambling through the theatre like a diseased man, poking his nose behind curtains and rafters as if searching for rats. For his part, Philippe avoided him at the Opera when he could. But all remained well in their joint flat. And there was no loss of pleasure in the taste of the Persian’s lips or the warmth of his hands upon Philippe’s skin.

When he was not having his episodes of frenzy, the Persian was perfectly amiable and calm. But when Philippe asked what was the matter, he’d simply told the count not to concern himself. Philippe had pretended to take offense, but the truth was that had been exactly what he wanted to hear-- he wished nothing to do with the Persian’s affairs. More often than not, it was the Persian who greeted him at the Opera rather than the other way around. If he could help it, Philippe looked the other way when he saw the man approach, and he much preferred to return to the flat alone rather than share a brougham with him. 

“The girls say you’ve been tainted with the ‘evil eye’- what nonsense,” Sorelli once told the count, thinking such talk no more than a funny joke. 

But he’d demanded to know more and she said, “Renou says you’ve become friendly with the Persian and he’s somehow placed an oriental curse upon you.”

“Those nitwits!” he hissed, “grown men believing this drivel!”

Philippe dismissed it as stupidity as soon as it came. Even so, he asked the Persian what the evil eye entailed and the man had said, “Your friends have no need to fear. I have no idea what they think it is. The evil eye is the gaze of a man who envies others so much he wishes to do them harm.”

As an added quip, the Persian said, “And I have no reason to envy anyone here.”

And even so, the stagehands confirmed that Count de Chagny was influenced by the evil eye when he nearly throttled the Renou boy backstage, livid at the misinformation surrounding his name.

* * *

“Are you avoiding me, Philippe?” the Persian asked one afternoon, having caught the count lurking by Sorelli’s dressing room.

“I think you are the one avoiding me, my friend. All this business of yours- it’s taken its toll on our… arrangement.”

“I see.” Awkwardly, the Persian looked down, as if it took all the strength he had to pull down his pride. “Perhaps I was too obsessed with my… pursuits as of late. I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry.”

Philippe wrapped an arm around the Persian’s shoulder. He grinned. “All is forgiven.”

But the lingering guilt still burned at the back of Philippe’s head. The Persian- it seemed- had yet to figure out that the source of Philippe’s discontent was not his attention span, but rather his eccentricities. Everything about him that Philippe once loved now filled him with a dull irritation- perhaps a dissatisfaction that was always there- the coarseness of his beard, the intonation of his French, the smell of lamb and spice baked into his trenchcoat, the fact that he was strange and foreign and unliked. It twisted at Philippe and made him wish that the Persian was someone else. But he still did not want to let go, because these wicked thoughts made him want to love the Persian all the more. 

As they entered the foyer, Philippe found several workers clearing a path, glancing upon them both as if they’d contracted disease. 

* * *

As an apology to Decaen and his wife, Philippe arranged for the Persian to join them for a luncheon at the estate. And this was in no small part because of the guilt that nabbed at him when it came to his beloved friend. Perhaps if his friends could see the man that Philippe loved for who he was, they would understand why the count favored him so. And they would see that the Persian was a perfectly respectable gentleman, charmingly strange and not the least bit mad. 

What Philippe had not expected was Decaen taking the liberty to invite Grignard and his sister Eloise, a woman he admitted to having fancied in their youths. 

“I hadn’t expected this many guests,” he told Decaen- point blank- in the parlor.

“Were you always so serious?” Grignard jabbed, though Philippe was sure the man knew perfectly well that Count de Chagny had always been this severe.

“But it’s been so long since we’ve had a proper get-together,” Decaen said, “and the more the merrier, isn’t it?”

The others agreed, and met with their pleasant faces, Philippe could not help but relent. It had indeed been some time since he’d been able to sit and laugh with his friends. It had been this same group that helped him through the grief of his parents’ death and the very same that looked on his siblings as their own. These were not lovers nor strangers-- these were his friends, companions he’d sorely missed as the years and fancies pushed them apart. 

Before the Persian’s arrival, the maids brought in tea and light h’orderves, enough refreshment to last through the afternoon. Then Grignard had requested wine, a teasing glint in his eyes, and they’d all laughed. They spoke of happier times and schoolboy pranks- who could forget Grignard gluing Father Michel’s buttocks to his chair?- and Decaen’s drunken speech at Marie de Chagny’s wedding. Margot was happy to speak of their daughter’s impending marriage, and Eloise got into a row with her about wasting the poor girl’s talents. Grignard took his sister’s stance, and as they exchanged friendly banter, Philippe found himself dousing wine and thinking, “Ah, what times I’ve missed!”

In the end, he was inclined to agree with Eloise, for there was no harm in indulging the child’s paintings, but once married, she should be ready to put husband and child first. 

“So you really haven’t agreed at all!” Decaen said, “Philippe, you rake!”

“Perhaps we need another tie-breaker then,” he quipped back.

“Do you think your Persian friend will have something to say?” Eloise said.

Grignard swallowed a macaroon. “He’ll agree with Decaen no doubt. They treat women quite terribly in the orient, I think.”

“Yes. I couldn’t imagine having to live there,” Margot added, “I wouldn’t be able to stand the smell of opium in the air.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glimpse of the  _ generous _ women though.” Grignard grinned as Eloise smacked him in the arm. 

And finding himself rather defensive of the Persian’s homeland, Philippe said, “Those are only rumors. We’ve nothing to go by but words on paper. And I’ve never heard of opium being a problem in  _ Persia _ anyway.”

“Oh, have you been to Persia, Philippe?” Decaen teased.

Almost instantly, Philippe shot back, _ “Have you?” _

If there was anger in his tone, his friends dismissed it, turning their attention to more tea and wine before they spoke again.

“I wonder,” Grignard said, dabbing a cloth against his lips, “what stories our Persian friend could tell?”

“Perhaps we can expect to be here for one thousand and one nights.” Decaen laughed, and as the others chuckled, Philippe laughed along, throat tickled by a vague unease.

“What does this fellow look like?” Eloise asked, looking to Philippe, an honest question.

“A man of healthy height,” Philippe answered, “not terribly tall but easy on the eyes.”

Decaen scoffed. “Are we thinking of the same Persian? All I saw was a madman. Dark, messy, and not right in the head.”

“Well, I believe Philippe,” Grignard said, “these orientals only come in two types, you see- pathetic wisps and exotic beauties. Perhaps he’s the latter.”

“I should hope so.” Eloise brushed away a lock of hair. “Or we’d have to question the dear count’s taste.”

“He is,” Philippe stated with no small irritation, “I assure all of you.”

As if just remembering, Margot chimed in, “His eyes were green! Yes, they frightened me that night but they were rather brilliant, really.

“Green eyes,” Grignard mused, “then he must have some western-”

The doors opened. Philippe hopped to his feet, rushing to greet the Persian as the butler showed him in. If the man had heard their conversation, no sign of it appeared on his face. 

“Come, Come!” Philippe said, perhaps too enthusiastically, “let’s all get acquainted.”

The Persian removed his hat, and after the butler took his coat, found himself a seat beside Philippe. To the count’s surprise (and perhaps irritation), he’d come dressed in a creamy robe, a dark vest on top. 

“I thought we decided on a striped suit,” Philippe whispered in his ear.

“I thought this would amuse your friends more,” the Persian whispered back, and bristling, Philippe could not tell if he was joking or not.

The Persian greeted Philippe’s friends, exchanging as many polite niceties as he could. The man was even less talkative than usual, but he was glad to answer any questions they had. He was nothing but a gentleman, perfectly fit to converse with the count’s peers, and as Philippe watched him speak and smile with his friends, he felt his worries fade away. 

“How do you find Paris?” Grignard asked.

“Perfectly adequate, Madame, though the weather leaves something to be desired.”

For her part, Margot seemed afraid to speak, eyes transfixed on Philippe’s newest guest in a most disagreeable way. It seemed she’d yet to shake the image of him raving in Box Six, but Philippe suspected there was more reason than that. 

“It’s all desert land back east, isn’t it?” Eloise said.

“There are deserts, yes.” The Persian eyed his cup but did not drink. “But I hail from Mazandaran. It is a coastal province.”

“Why, you learn something new every day!”

As his friends laughed, Philippe fidgeted with his cravat. He too had assumed Persia was a strip of sand. And in his head, he cursed the Persian for not telling him of Mazandaran sooner. It occurred to him, then, that he had told the Persian everything and the man had told him nothing. This did not sit well.

“Perhaps we can hear a few words from your mother tongue?” Decaen said.

“Yes! We’re all quite curious. I’ve only ever heard Hebrew once.”

“Oh, let him talk already,” Eloise said, and then as they all looked eagerly to the Persian, he obliged.

And whatever he said sounded- admittedly- not as unpleasant (nor throaty) as Philippe had expected. A few hard notes here and there, but there was a lilting quality to the man’s voice itself. 

“What did it mean?” Philippe asked.

“I rubbed soap on my stomach.” The Persian smiled- for once- while the others chuckled, and when they pressed for its meaning, he said, “Only an idiom. I let my hopes get the better of me.”

_ And I was disappointed. _ Philippe knew the words before he heard them. And that same unease in the back of his brain told him the words were directed at him. The count did not speak for the rest of the hour, listening instead to his friends’ curious questions and the Persian’s nonchalant answers.

No, he had never owned a harem. He had experience with one, but he was not allowed in. No, he had never eaten pork nor did he intend to start. Yes, he did not mind slipping in a few drops of wine every now and then. He learned French from his father, who had passed on long ago. Yes, he quite enjoyed the Opera, though he could not understand the lyrics more than half the time. Yes, he had seen men kill in the streets of Tehran, but he had also seen men kill in the streets of Paris. Yes, his complexion was common. And no, his eye color was not rare.

And then, pausing to take a sip of tea for once since he arrived, the Persian said, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m afraid I must leave now.”

“We haven’t even served lunch,” Margot said, breaking her silence, “surely you’ll stay!”

The others were quick to agree, quite taken with their guest. But the Persian shook his head. “No, I must go. Thank you, Philippe, all of you, for having me.”

“I see there’s no stopping you, my friend.” Philippe bid him goodbye and watched as the butler showed him out. 

Once the doors closed, Eloise turned to him and said, “Philippe, you were right- he really is handsome!”

“Yes, yes,” Grignard said, “I’d wondered how you went from seducing ballerinas to Arabs, but this makes sense.”

Before Philippe could correct him, Decaen mumbled, “The accent leaves something to be desired.”

Eloise picked at the crumbs of her plate. “But it was fascinating to hear him speak Persian. The Romantic languages get boring after a while.”

“Yes,” Grignard laughed, “perhaps dear Philippe can arrange to meet an Ottoman next. So we can compare.”

“Or you can bring in that Jew you mentioned,” Decaen teased, “why not a Chinaman next, let’s pick through the east one by one.”

“I, for one, am not opposed to making new friends,” Margot said, to which Eloise argued, “Really? You were looking at the Persian like he had two heads.”

And as they bickered, Philippe looked to the door, wondering if the Persian could hear. Surely he had left by then. And it occurred to him that perhaps his friends had not came to call on him after all- perhaps they’d only gathered to get a closer look at the Opera’s famous Persian. He wanted to scold them. He wanted to call them closed-minded little things, but the thought only left his tongue dry.

Because for all their ugly words, Philippe could not bring himself to think any less of the people he called friends. And that made him think less of himself. 

* * *

The stagehands and apparently some of the showgoers had stopped speaking to Philippe, sometimes giving him a wide berth as he approached. It was not particularly bothersome since the count rarely spoke to these people as it was, but their silly superstitions did miff him. He only went to the Opera with the intention of seeing Sorelli anyway, everything on stage merely a blur.

He still met with the Persian once or twice a week in their flat, but since the luncheon, the other man became more engrossed with other affairs. He spent more time in his own home and more time lurking the halls of the Garnier. He was essentially as hard to read now as he was back then.

According to Sorelli, Poligny’s stunt in Box Five resulted in a series of minor crimes and hefty accidents attributed to the ghost. He’d even taken to harassing M. Debienne, and however he chose to do it, it left both men looking twenty years older than they were. The ghost had dropped warnings whenever it could, and it seemed that the managers were determined to ignore them with all their might. But in Sorelli’s opinion, it was a losing battle.

“Any manager who bows down to a faceless prankster isn’t worth his salt,” Philippe had said, and he’d meant every word.

When Sorelli asked of his Persian, Philippe told her nothing. And that was all she needed to know that he was suffering. As they embraced, she asked him not to be too upset by what she would say next:

The Persian had stationed himself in a corner of the foyer, telling anyone who entered to be wary of the light fixtures. The boxkeeper, whose name still slipped Philippe’s mind, did the same thing, and rumor had it they were both working with the so-called ghost, however different their reasons. It seemed that the boxkeeper was saying these things on the prankster’s behalf and the Persian thought himself some savior of the common people.

“And just when I thought his madness had ceased!” Philippe said, followed by a ragged sigh.  _ Damn that man! _

* * *

Philippe would wonder once or twice in the next few years if it would have ended the same way had he not been so livid that night. He’d stumbled out of Sorelli’s dressing room, intent on dragging the Persian away from the limelight and forcing this behavior to end. He could not be seen with such a man if he chose to continue this way, and for the Persian’s own sake, Philippe simply found it unhealthy-- and he did not wish to see his friend committed.

He sauntered towards the Persian, aggravated by the onlookers that’d stopped to stare. The Persian’s gaze had been on something above. When he saw the count, the man started and said, “Philippe- stop!”

But the count refused. He pushed on, and in the second he heard the snap of rope, he felt the Persian ram into him. Philippe’s back hit the ground, head knocking against marble as he saw stars above. The Persian had tackled him, sweaty hands clawing into the fabric of Philippe’s suit.

He heard the Persian call his name as two guards wrenched off Philippe’s person. Still warm from the body that had been sticking so close, Philippe sat up, head throbbing as it no doubt swelled. 

“What’s gotten into you!?” he snapped, the pain and frustration too much to bare. “I ask and I ask and you say nothing!”

“The light- the light!” was all the Persian could say, “I thought-”

Philippe looked up. One of the lights was indeed swaying, but the cords holding it up were perfectly in-tact. The snap had come from the broken clasp of a woman’s purse in the gathering crowd behind. 

“You thought?” Philippe said, flabbergasted, “you attacked me because you thought? Why would you think such a thing?”

The Persian’s mouth tightened in a grim line. Looking to the guard that kept the man bound, the count said, “Let him go.”

“But-”

“He won’t touch me again.”

Reluctant, the guards released the Persian and Philippe walked towards him, the shame of having been caught in yet another raving incident burning hot within.

Eyes hardened, he said to the Persian, “Never. Touch me again.”

For a moment, hurt crossed those green eyes. Then the Persian blinked it out, and swallowing, said, “I will not. My apologies, M. le Comte.”

Philippe nodded. And they parted as strangers.

* * *

When Philippe next returned to the flat, the Persian’s toothbrush had disappeared. The wardrobe belonged to him alone once more. And the flat was as empty as it had always been. 

Come Saturday, the woman would change the bed’s sheets. Philippe told her to throw them out.

* * *

It was a rainy morning, much like the rain Philippe saw when he first invited the Persian to dinner, when the manor staff informed him of an odd guest. When he asked who was at the door, the footman said it was a stranger, a swarthy man in a trench coat. 

“Turn him away,” Philippe had ordered from his study, but this guest had insisted.

And perhaps because he still had a soft spot for the Persian, Philippe did not like the idea of leaving him in the rain. He told the servants to let him in and he would meet the man in the parlor.

But to his surprise, it was not the Persian he knew on the couch. The man stood up to greet him, his eyes dark brown and his hair a shock of healthy black. 

“M. le Comte, thank you for allowing me in.”

Philippe did not bother shaking his hand, but he did insist the man sit. The count sat across from him, and deciding that he had never seen this man in his life, asked, “Monsieur, who are you and what business do you have with me?”

“My name is Darius. You may know my master as ‘the persian’,” he said politely, “I came to return your umbrella.”

“Oh.” Philippe remembered, then, the familiar item in his footman’s hands. “Thank you. Is that all?”

Darius regarded him for a moment too long, and when Philippe was about to raise a brow, the man said, “Yes.”

The count chuckled dryly. “No, I think there’s more you wish to say. Be my guest.”

“No, it’s not my place, M. le Comte.”

“I wish to hear. I won’t hold it against you.” This much was true. Philippe recalled the Persian mentioning a manservant a few times, but it felt rather otherworldly to stare the man in the face. And as loathe as he was to say it, he did want to know if the Persian still thought of him. More times than he could count, Philippe considered asking the man to start anew.

“I believed you were an ill fit for my master from the start.” 

The count’s brow hiked up. But more intrigued than anything else, he said, “I was a bad fit? Do explain.”

“I see no reason to.” Darius smiled, rather coldly. “Do you know his name? He was not born ‘the persian.’”

Philippe wished to retort, but he did not. The Persian had never revealed his name, and Philippe thought it best to respect the man’s privacy. Or perhaps a part of him did think “the Persian” was enough of a name. Philippe no longer knew.

Darius saved him from replying when he went on, “It’s all right, M. le Comte. My master doesn’t begrudge you. But I do. He is a great man and I’m sorry you could not see that.”

“Your master attacked me over a light that didn’t even fall.” As soon as the statement left, Philippe berated himself for jumping on the defensive. What reason had he to defend himself against a madman’s servant?

“If that’s how you see it, I will not stop you.” Darius folded his hands across his lap. “But do understand- my master comes to this country so far from home. He speaks a language not his own. He walks amongst cold strangers and strange customs every day. He meets hostility wherever he goes, but he rarely returns it. The French should think, ‘Ah, he is braver than I’ yet they do not. Now tell me, Count de Chagny, in his place, could you have done the same?”

Philippe did not speak. Darius stood up and bowed lightly. “I don’t expect an answer. I can show myself out- I promise you, I won’t return.”

As Darius passed, Philippe- overcome with irritation and the feeling of having been talked down to- said, roughly, “So what is your master’s name?”

“Forgive me, M. le Comte. I do not wish to hear his name sullied by your lips.”

Philippe had half a mind to strike the man, but he only sighed, saying nothing as Darius took his leave. It was a relief, in a way, to know the Persians were out of his life for good. He had no time to waste on guilt or regret-- what reason had he to? He hoped the Persians would purge him from their heads as well. 

Count Philippe de Chagny was not a fickle man and perhaps this was both his greatest virtue and greatest flaw. Once he set his mind on a matter, that was it. Men like him did not have time to be fickle. They did not have time to sit and think.

In the following years, he would pass the Persian many times at the Opera. But he never cast the man a second glance again. He had no reason to, just as he had no reason to know the boxkeeper’s name. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to kudos/comment! I hope this pairing is interesting to you.
> 
> My thoughts on Philippe actually changed over the years- he's quite interesting to write for but I never saw him as a saintly nobleman, and I see him as even less perfect now. I see him as THAT guy- a good person at his core and kind to the people that matter to *him*, but he would 110% percent get murdered at the end of "Parasite" (2019).


End file.
